


all you wanna do

by sad_clown_hours



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I really want Sansa to be able to heal, Sansa Stark Deserves Better, Six the Musical References, Songfic, blood mention, but never as violent as canon so i think we're ok, tagged as mature just to be safe as there are brief graphic bits of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_clown_hours/pseuds/sad_clown_hours
Summary: Because I listened to this song and thought of Sansa Stark.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	all you wanna do

Sansa is ten and three when she first notices a man’s gaze following her. Despite her father’s hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward, she can’t help but look back. Some hedge knight lets his eyes linger shamelessly on her body. The weight of his eyes lingers. It burns, almost. Sansa does not yet know that the burn will become almost normal in the years to come. For now, it unsettles her. It stirs little more than discomfort.

Joffrey  
Tell me what you need  
What you want, you don’t need to plead  
‘Cause I feel the chemistry  
Like I get you and you get me  
And maybe this is it  
He just cares so much it feels legit  
We have a connection  
I think this guy is different

Looking back, Sansa pities the poor girl who dreamed of a golden prince with gleaming green eyes. But she cannot help but resent the girl, too, for being so in love with the idea of a beautiful prince that she forgot to be thankful for what she had. 

At first it was thrilling to be the subject of his gaze. Other men had looked at her before, but this was different. He was a prince. His wanting of her was special. It warmed her. 

It warms her, until it does not. When Joffrey murders her father-- not executes, murders, because Sansa knows her father and she knows that he is incapable of treason-- his gaze turns black and unholy. It turns rotten in her heart. 

Joffrey’s wanting of her turns to pain. 

He wants her in order to hurt her. Sansa escapes into herself to avoid him, but cannot fully unknow the way that his poisonous green eyes pierce her before he attempts some new fresh torment. She learns quickly what he likes-- demure, fearful glances; salty tears brimming at her lashes; purple-red-blue welts marring her milky white skin. So he wants her, now, but she knows how. And it’s her knowing that keeps her alive (if not safe).

The Hound  
All you wanna do, all you wanna do baby  
Is seize me, squeeze me, birds and the bees me  
There’s no time for when or how ‘cause you  
Just got to have me now

Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, Sansa can see Sandor Clegane reach for her, almost unconsciously. As though she is some sort of doll to be touched and rearranged into her proper state. He tries to dab the blood off of her lip or touch her hair too often for her own comfort. He wants Sansa, against his-- and really, everyone’s-- better judgment. And yet.

He reaches for her. Not always with his hands. His eyes, dark and brooding, seek hers near constantly in the throne room, in the gardens, in the corridors. He finds her. Sansa feels hunted.   
Hunted by the Hound. How… expected. 

For some reason, she had expected the best of him. Like he was an unlikely hero from the songs, someone ugly but true, a knight whose honor outshone any physical deformity. 

He was. He was, until he leaned in at the wrong moment and ruined everything. Because before, Sansa could pretend that he had good intentions. Now she cannot. And he knows this, she thinks, from the near frantic look in his eyes, but he leans ever closer, waiting for her to tell him no. 

The word is stuck painfully in her throat. He leans closer and Sansa closes her eyes.

Tyrion  
All you wanna do, baby  
Is touch me, love me, can’t get enough, see  
All you wanna do, all you wanna do baby  
Is please me, squeeze me, birds and the bees me  
Run your fingers through my hair  
Tell me I’m the fairest of the fair

He doesn’t want to want her, not like the others do, and not in the way they do, but there is desire there all the same. Sansa can see what he wishes for when he steals short, longing glances at her across their chambers at night when they sit in companionable silence. She can see how he pities her and wants her in equal measure.

She can see the future he might envision. His patience and kindness will eventually win her over, and into his bed. His father will be stoic but pleased that he has done his duty and fucked her. She will let him use her to have as many children as his father needs to manipulate and control the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms through her bloodline. And she will do all of this with fondness in her heart, perhaps even love. She will look at him the same way he will look at her, and they will live long, happy years together. 

It hurts to know what he wants and not be able to give it. Sansa is the consummate lady, always wishing to please; she wants to be able to repay him, in some way, for protecting her as her husband. But he simply wants too much, and so she cannot give him anything at all.

Littlefinger  
And there’s nothing more to it  
He just cares so much, he’s devoted  
He says we have a connection  
I thought this guy was different  
Why did I think he’d be different?  
But it’s never, ever different

He tells her to call him Petyr, instead of the customary Lord Baelish, or the derogatory Littlefinger. She does, without question. Why should she question him? Has he proven untrustworthy?

She does not think him untrustworthy until she leaves with him to the Vale. It hits her, all of a sudden, how he wants to have her. He wants her alone and vulnerable. He wants her a terrified little lamb, alone except for his affections. There’s certainly a part of her that wants to be that lamb. It would be a relief to be a creature that could not interpret Petyr’s longings for what they are. 

Alas, Sansa is no such creature. She can see how he takes her for her mother, and she can understand how he wants her, how he wants to manipulate her. It hurts to know how easily she’s been taken in even after knowing the wants of other men. Stupid, she thinks, weak and stupid. How could she fall prey to another man’s desires with the knowledge she has now? 

But she does, and she is trapped. It is a small blessing that Sansa has learned by now to endure and survive rather than fight, for she is able to prolong and procrastinate Petyr’s ambitious affections. She stops him from moving into her any further than necessary. This is what it is to survive, she thinks. Endurance, and cleverness.

Ramsay  
All you wanna do, all you wanna do baby  
Is touch me, when will enough be enough, see?  
All you wanna do, all you wanna do baby  
Squeeze me, don’t care if you don’t please me  
Bite my lip and pull my hair  
As you tell me I’m the fairest of the fair

In her dreams, Ramsay Bolton has the sharp fangs of a snake and the blood-stained muzzle of one of his hounds. In truth, his teeth are rather pointed and his mouth only sometimes bloody, and his face always smiling. And he comes at night, like a phantom, and wants her. He wants her pain, yes, always, but her at the end of the day. Ramsay wants to consume her body and soul. He wants to eat her flesh and leave her carcass rotting away in the snow. As if consuming her will give him the father’s approval, the name, the title that he’s always craved. 

When Sansa becomes too numb to cry, a good month or so into her internment at Winterfell, she begins to laugh. The pain continues, but as it does, so does the humor of it all. There’s some sort of irony to be found in the man called Snow trying to break the daughter of Winter itself. She laughs, when Ramsay declares his intention to get a few children out of her, as if that should frighten her. She stops laughing when he starts cutting. 

At first, at least. She laughs and stops and laughs and stops. Then she couldn’t stop if she tried. That, that-- that was what it took to move her. For if she did not stop laughing, she could become the laughing, smiling, blood-stained man hovering above her, never stopping, never not wanting more of her to eat. She could easily be him. She could seek revenge on all those who had never harmed her and let their blood stain her teeth the same way hers does his. She could. She could.

But she leaves. The thought of her own visage haunting another the same way that Ramsay haunts her is too much to bear. She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. He is not chasing her out of her own home. She is waiting for the moment to end him, end his laughing and his cutting and his sharp bloody teeth. She will claim all that he thinks to be his, and none will remember him. 

After  
Playtime’s over  
It’s nearly funny, in a dark sort of way, how Sansa has been viewed as, wanted as a woman, and yet has never felt like one until she is not really wanted at all. Until she stands alone on her dais and claims the North as her true husband, to stave off any erstwhile suitors. Until she relinquishes the hold that all the men who have wanted her once had. 

Then, and only then, does Sansa no longer feel like the broken little bird she once was, who depended on others wanting her in order to survive. She is a free woman in her own right. 

It takes years before Sansa allows anyone to touch her the way she’s been touched before. Years, and age, and peace, finally. These are the things that have made her whole even after all this time. The others-- well. The others are gone now. When hands touch her chest it no longer suffocates her. And the places that once were inflamed to the touch have cooled. She has tempered herself like the strongest of Valyrian steel.

It’s been time that has healed her, certainly, but not just. Sansa Stark carries ice in her blood, and she is the reason that she is no longer broken.


End file.
